Alone, V became peaceful. Clear nights she sat outside watching the sky until midnight, feeding a little twig fire for company. She followed moon phases for a month and watched bright planets set over the mountains. It focused her mind. Sometimes she breathed deep and let go all her resentments for as high as a day at a time. The thing that kept pulling at her the hardest was that Jeff had resigned from the army in order to marry Knoxie but rejoined it to leave V behind.
EVENTUALLY, WHAT ELSE? They left Washington together in early July, and again took the northern route, but the trip lacked all romance this time. A dreary, sweaty, mosquito-plagued float down the muddy river.
Jeff headed on to New Orleans and Mexico almost immediately after arriving at Davis Bend, and now all V remembers are the discussions between Jeff and Pemberton about whether he should go to Mexico with Jeff or stay at Brierfield. Pemberton finally decided to stay, arguing that V would need him.
OLD JOSEPH LIKED TO TELL PEOPLE what to do and to have them do it, and he strongly preferred that the white women of Davis Bend either praise him for his efforts or keep their mouths shut. Before Jeff even finished crossing the Gulf from New Orleans to Mexico, V learned she would have to deal face-to-face with Joseph by herself, without an ally.
Things quickly came to a head one night at The Hurricane when after supper Joe stabbed a long roll of paper across the table at her. When she spread it out, she recognized doodles depicting an ugly revision of the new house she and Jeff were about to build to replace Jeff’s cat-and-clay experiment in architecture. Joe’s vision grafted another house onto theirs—a lopsided wing with a sitting room and three large bedrooms. He said a cousin or niece or some other recently widowed in-law V didn’t even know would be moving in with many children—too many to bother counting or differentiating—as soon as the construction concluded. They could all share the one kitchen and dining room.
V said, Mr. Davis, this won’t be convenient at all. I don’t think we’re aiming for anything along the lines of a row house.
Old Joe looked off toward the windows and then looked straight at V and said, Not convenient? Let me be clear. This is going to happen whether you think it’s convenient or not.
—We’ll see, V said.
—No, we won’t see. I’ll see.
Joseph reached across the table for his plans and rolled them back into a tight cylinder and shook them in her face and said, You’re evasive, elusive. I ask simple questions about the management of Brierfield, and you slide away into vagueness. I can’t get a straight answer out of you to save me.
V said, Mr. Davis, What do you tell me about your business? Nothing. And I don’t expect it, given that it’s none of my business. But if a straight answer is what you want from me, then I’ll say that I find the subjects of your curiosity to be essentially none of your concern. If I’m indirect, it’s in an attempt to be mannerly. You call it elusive, but I call it etiquette. Brierfield is my husband’s plantation, and I doubt we’ll be building a wing for distant relatives. We don’t intend to run a boardinghouse.
Joe reddened and glared like he wanted to slap her down. He shoved back his chair and stood up so abruptly his empty Champagne coupe tipped and broke against the edge of his plate. He came around the table and stood over her. He crowded close, twitching with anger. She pinched her lips shut and stood and faced him.
He said, You want to try me, little girl? I’ll quickly become a master under whom you will be the first to learn obedience.
Eliza and Florida and the younger girls looked at their laps.
V’s hands and voice shook. Very slowly she said, Mr. Davis, you may feel free to threaten me now. But I suggest we wait until Jeff returns from Mexico to sort this out.
—Oh, of course, Joseph said. My brother will sort this right out for you. Maybe he’ll start by telling you things you apparently don’t know. Like the fact that he doesn’t own an acre of this land. It was a family handshake deal, an understanding with no legal foundation. On paper, Brierfield is still mine. I hold the deed, not Jeff. So whatever goes on anywhere here at the Bend is every bit my business and none whatsoever of yours.
V couldn’t think what to say except, Even the house Jeff is paying to build?
—Strong argument to be made that it falls under the heading of improvements to the property conveying to the owner. Meaning me. Have you even looked at Jeff’s will?
—No.
—I wrote it. Should make interesting reading. If Jeff dies—whether it’s fighting in Mexico or whatnot—you don’t inherit anything except the right to keep living here as a dependent of mine until you pass away or find some crazy old widower with a cornfield and a hog-lot out at Catahoula Lake willing to take you on.
—That sump? V said.
—Oh, you exaggerate. I’m sure there are a couple of fine weeks in spring. Anyhow, I’ll have relevant passages of the will scribed so you can see your situation for yourself. You’ll enjoy the Latin terms that crop up pretty often. And then you go on ahead and write Jeff to confirm. But meanwhile, considering your position, you need to amend your tone toward me.
—I will begin that effort tomorrow. Until then I’ll think about what kind of low price you’re establishing for selling out a sibling. By the way, has Jeff ever even seen the will you wrote for him?
—He signed it, you grubbing little bitch, Joseph said.
All the women sat quietly at their places. Florida wouldn’t even look V in the eye.
V had planned to spend the night at The
